


Situation Normal

by HyperionGuns



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Gen, TFTBL, Tales from the Borderlands, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperionGuns/pseuds/HyperionGuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys and his division of US paratroopers are dropped near a French town with the task of securing it for the Normandy invasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. SNAFU

The ocean swelled and depressed, a black sea under a God’s imminent wrath. Rhys looked down from the aircraft and pulled at the straps of his backpack. The black turned to dark brown, and Rhys was nearing the drop zone. “This is gonna be, uh, something” a voice stuck in adolescence murmured from Rhys’s left. Vaughn wasn't the military type, but neither was Rhys for that matter. None of them were. They should've been at home, in college, working the fields. Instead Lady Liberty had sentenced them to death, or worse, capture. “It'll be fine, man, look, you know that gun better than anyone..”

“Vaughn,” Rhys broke his silence, “This’ll be,” he paused for a moment. He wanted to say hell, but Vaughn was in fragile spirits. “Fine. This’ll be fine. Stick with me, don't let any damn krauts up on us”

“Bro we got this”

“Yeah.”

The drop was nearing infinitely closer with each turn of the plane’s rotors. The Captain, a fellow no older than the rest, readied to call.  
“Get ready to drop boys, San’ Meraglise” he said, unsure of that French name.  
At the hatch of the rear, Lieutenant Vasquez, a bitter man who wore a toupee under his helmet stood to jump.  
Rhys noticed something. Vasquez’s chute wasn't harnessed quite right.

“Vasquez”

“What now fathead?” The asshole smacked back. Vasquez had been an asshole since they were put in the 101st, and probably before then, too. Vaughn had chalked it up to him being jealous of Rhys’s barely-regulation length natural hair.

“Uh, have a nice trip, chrome dome.”  Vasquez narrowed his eyebrows at Rhys.

“Go! Go! Go!” That was the call to action. The boys ran out of the plane, their lines streaming from a rack inside.  
Vaughn trailed right behind Rhys as they left the plane, counted down, and pulled the cord. Suddenly, a gust struck, and Rhys sailed away from Vaughn. In the moments left in the sky, Rhys looked down. There, Vasquez was falling chute-less to the floodplain below. Vaughn was terrified, as he headed into the town area a half mile up and away from Rhys.

His boots were on solid ground for the first time in four hours. Rhys looked around him. Nobody was there. Nobody alive at least. Vasquez was there, somewhat. He'd been impaled on a fence post. Rhys looked over at his comrade, he might have to write a letter to Old Lady Vasquez.

“Rest in pis-” Rhys was cut short by a single click he was told to listen for. Back in England, before the drop, the general had told them to respond to a single click with a double click to prevent friendly fire. He clicked twice.

“Hundred-n-first?” a dark figure asked with a gravelly voice.

“Y-yeah,” he replied.  
The figure plunged into the moonlight.

“Names Axton, who’s he?”

“Th-that, who?” Rhys didn't want to acknowledge the gruesome scene behind him.

“Ol’ baldie over there, looks like he might need a medic” Axton said.  
Vasquez’s helmet had fallen to his chin, his top half was upside down over the post, and his toupee was bobbing in front of him. He looked like a raggedy ann doll for douchebags.

“Oh him?” Rhys said, trying to play it off.

“Yea-”

“He’s uh, he’s fine, really. Look, we gotta get a move on to Saint Mary Geese,” Was it Saint Mary Geese? Rhys had failed French class.

“Saint Mere Eglise?” Axton had received pretty good grades in his foreign language courses.

“Mhm!”

“Right, well he’s dead I think, I'll uh, mark this location, what’s his,” Axton moved Vasquez’s limp body off the post to get his tags, “Vasquez, okay. Yeah lets get on to the town”

Rhys saw Vasquez falling in his mind. The two paratroopers began their voyage into the thick shrubs.

“So, I take it,” Axton said traversing a rock, “That you were a draft?”

“Hey, what makes you say that?” Rhys retorted.

“Nothin’ just, well, you look a little, uh” Axton was having second thoughts, “Anyways, how far ‘til Sainte Mère Église”

“It’s been what, four minutes. Half a mile. I’d say ten more minutes but it could be less--” The sudden appearance of an obstacle showed that it would be a little longer than ten more minutes. Before them was a British glider, smashed to bits, painted red on the inside with enlisted men.  
Through the busted side Rhys saw a scene he wished he hadn't. Axton looked closer inside as Rhys turned to the bushes to return his dinner.

“Damn.” Axton said in wonderment, and then shouted, “Anyone alive?”

“Axton, I don't think anybody-” Rhys was cut short by a high pitched voice.

“Aye, could ya kindly come get me outta this strap” the Brit said in a pained voice.  
The boys leapt to action to free their ally. “We took a nose dive”

“Rhys, you gotta kit?” Axton requested. “I’m gonna tie up these wounds with your sock, alright,” He said to the wounded man.  
Rhys didn't have a medical kit or the heart to break the bad news to the British boy that a field medical kit couldn’t reattach his legs.

“Hey, we're gonna have to hide him and mark him, it’s all we can do.”  
The Americans realized they were gonna have to leave this him here. There was simply no way to save him by backpacking him through the mission.

“Right,” Axton was getting choked up, “You're gonna be alright, we're gonna send you a party as soon as we can,” Everyone knew he was gonna bleed out before any rescue effort could be made. As they departed Axton began to cry quietly. Rhys didn't blame him, he'd cry too if he weren't too shocked by that whole ordeal.  
They arrived at a bridge to Sainte-Mère-Église. While the bridge was intact, the plan required they wade through the water. Germans had a watch on the bridge and there was no crossing it. Rhys wondered where the rest of his company was, but noted that the bridge wasn't blown, a good sign. The marines who were gonna roll hell through here later would need that bridge.  
The urge to look for Vaughn was getting stronger. He wasn't used to being in the field without him. Rhys and Vaughn were two pieces of a puzzle, beautiful together and incomplete when separate. Rhys got sick again, but this time he didn't have anything to throw up.

“You okay buddy? You're lookin’ a little green,”

“I'm fine, I'm fine,”. Rhys dry-heaved.  
As Rhys eased into the cold French river, he raised his M1 rifle and clenched his jaw so hard he thought it might break. He felt his legs go numb and thought of the British boy in the glider wreck five minutes before. He would find Vaughn, he would liberate Sainte-Mère-Église, and then he would go home if he had to walk there.


	2. Deer Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys must go off on his own to find a way to get Axton out of trouble.

Rhys stood at the outskirts of Sainte-Mère-Église and noticed something. Axton hadn’t looked up from the British boy’s dog tags since he took them. Rhys thought about saying something to ease his mind, but there were no words that could heal that experience. Axton looked up for a moment and muttered something to himself.

“Heh, France man,”. He was losing it.

Rhys was still speechless. What do you tell a man who knows he’s sent a man to death. It was different from killing an enemy, that had direction and meaning, but a glider crash? God had struck that boy down. Struck all those boys down. Doomed one boy to taste safety only to have it taken from him because the people who found him weren’t medics. If only that gust hadn’t taken Vaughn. Vaughn sewed up Redman’s leg real good back in Basic.

Redman sliced his leg climbing a barbed wire fence during an exercise. There were no medics at the scene and Vaughn happened to have a sewing kit in his breast pocket. Quick thinking saved Redman’s leg and sent him home. Vaughn had a fifteen minutes of fame like no other. Redman’s family sent him a box of chocolates and a new spool of thread.

Rhys snapped back to the current situation, standing outside of the French town.

“Axton!” Rhys whisper-shouted at the bumbling paratrooper, “Shake a leg!”

Axton exhaled deeply, pulled his M1 up to his chest, took in a painful breath of morning air and walked right into a well. “SHIT!” he screamed.

“SHIT MAN!” Rhys echoed.

“Come on! Lift me out!”

“Axton, man, with what?”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!” Axton thought about the parachute a half mile back.

Rhys also thought about the parachute a half mile back. It couldn’t work. It had to work. He whipped around hoping to see a well placed rope, a vine, something.

“Wait here,” Rhys said into the well.

“No man, I was off to get a cola with one of these French broads,” The well replied.

“Don’t get fresh with me, man!” Rhys broke a sprint back to the arrival area.

In Basic, Rhys barely passed his mile run time. Taking eight entire minutes was subpar for Uncle Sam. Rhys dove right into the frigid stream that ran under the bridge, leaving his rifle on the shore. He didn’t even think about the splashing he was making, but a German patrol took note of his presence. It was the dark hours of the morning, and an unsure Johann nudged his sleeping commanding officer to get a second opinion.

“Frank, Frank, there’s something in the water, come look!” Johann said, pulling at the officer’s sleeve.

“Fuck off Johann, I am trying to catch some rest,” Frank had none of what Johann was having. Rhys escaped the area without a commotion.

Rhys arrived at the glider wreck a moment later. Fear overcame his whole body as he thought of what to say to the boy. Maybe he was dead. Rhys decided to sneak by and avoid having to make such a difficult choice twice. He crawled along the back of the glider and sprinted to the clearing where Vasquez lie in the dirt, a hole right through his chest. Someone had moved him. Someone had also taken the chutes.

“shit.” Rhys whispered in the voice of a man who’d just had his balls kicked in with a steel-toe. He turned to be faced by a man wearing torn fatigues.

 

“Rhys?” he spoke in an empty voice.

How did he know his name? Who was he?

“How do you know my name? Who are you?”

The man pointed at Rhys’s chest, where his name clearly read ‘RHYS’

“Watch out boy, the gas! It’ll burn you inside out!” the man declared. His eyes, or where there should have been eyes, opened. The man’s head shone a fiery red light out from where one would expect faint white glare. His arm crumbled to dust as he lowered it from Rhys’s nametag.

“Right, right, okay uh.” Rhys backed up slowly then darted back into the shrubs. That was a moment to be forgotten, hopefully.

He ran straight into the wreckage, forgetting about the boy, who he could clearly see had not survived the past hour. Rhys also clearly saw that the glider had taken more than just men with it. A telegraph pole which he hadn’t noted before lie directly under it. Rhys took his knife and cut a twelve foot portion of wire which he coiled at his hip.

Rhys dove into the water once more. This swimming was starting to tire him, and the water was filling his ears. He heard a ringing. Hopefully it wasn’t an infection, he thought. He was right, it wasn’t an infection. His right arm couldn’t move and he began to flail in the water.

“Frank I got a deer,” Johann said excitedly.

“YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT, STOP SHOOTING DEER,” Frank shouted. He was not amused.

Rhys’s squirming body hit the lake bed, his right arm inexplicably paralyzed. It took a moment for the pain of the bullet to strike in his shoulder. He pushed himself upright on the mud floor and stood to let his head above water.

Rhys heard someone shouting in German from the bridge. He crouched below again and began to move landwards. They wouldn’t notice, he was alive still, he couldn’t stop now. He was on land, stealth like the night, cool like the wind, paralyzed in one arm like someone who was mistaken for a deer and shot in the shoulder blade. Rhys stumbled into the brush and swore he would make it. He pulled at the ground, moving inch by inch closer to the well.

It took him back to a time when he was waiting tables in his uncle’s restaurant. He had this trick where, at the end of the patron’s dinner, he would yank the tablecloth right out from under the plates and glasses. Usually, all went well, the trick was popular and often got him a better tip, but that was just most of the time. Once in a blue moon, he’d yank the cover and be met with a plate of spaghetti right to the crotch. One snapshot grabbed by a fortunate patron had immortalized Rhys’s expression with a Kodak 35. The picture was probably still on the wall in the restaurant over a permanent “EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH” sign (although Rhys hadn’t worked there for over a year).

Rhys heard a click and remembered what he was doing. He responded with two on the clacker.

“Rhys?”

“Axton?” Rhys knew the answer to that.

“Have you got what you need?” The man trapped in the well darted back.

“Axton, my arm,” He reached across his back for the rope on his right hip, “I can’t move it. I’m bleeding pretty bad, too”

“Shit, can you hold it tight enough for me to get out?”

Rhys lowered the rope and felt it tense. His grip was tight, but Axton outweighed him and he began to be pulled forward. A notch in the ground gave Rhys a slight ledge to hang on with, and he hooked into the ground. The dark sky above them saw a scene not often considered when thinking of the dangers of war. Shit, you might fall in a well. You might see a ghost. You might drown in a river. Hell you might even be mistaken for a deer.

Axton flopped onto the ground. He was drenched. Rhys was sprawled out in a sorry display of how to treat a bullet wound.

“Let’s get you up,” Axton lifted him up, “Here, give me your jacket,”. Rhys complied.

Axton cut the right sleeve of the jacket.

“Alright come here,” he wrapped the sleeve under Rhys’s armpit and around his neck.

“Thanks” Rhys said as Axton’s face exploded into a thousand red chunks of United States property.

“SHIT,” His body fell limp and Rhys darted behind a garden wall. In an instant Axton had went from tying up a shoulder wound to having no face. Rhys took the M1911 pistol out of his belt, clicked the safety, and jumped back up to face the assailant.


	3. Ain't That A Kick In The Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys faces death head on.

“MOTHER FUCKER,” Rhys screamed as he unloaded into a fearful German reloading his rifle.  The bullets curved around the enemy but never hit him.  Rhys stood there, still screaming, “YOU, YOU! ARE SO FUCKED! _SO_ FUCKED!” the gun began to click.

 

The enemy, who was visibly shaken, raised his gun to Rhys and shouted something in German.  Rhys’s face went from a dark, angered expression to that of a boy away from home who was about to be killed at the hands of another boy away from home.

 

“I,” Rhys started, there’d be no bargaining out of this one.  He began to fall apart, “Please God no, why, why now, please, no!” The German’s expression flashed empathy for a half second, then remembered his duty and hardened.  He touched the trigger and a boot hit the right of his head.  He toppled, shooting Rhys in the right arm.

 

Someone was screaming.  It was a familiar scream.  A friendly scream.

 

“Take _THAT_ you Nazi piece of SHIT!”  The friend taunted at the downed soldier.

 

“Agh’ shit, Vaughn why didn’t you shoot him?”  A wheezing Rhys said, gripping his now doomed right appendage.

 

Vaughn looked over, his excitement turned to concern.  “Oh my god, Rhys are you alright?”

 

“Got that sewing kit?” he answered.  Vaughn nodded and took out a needle and spool of yellow thread.  His nimble hands pulled the bullet wounds together into scarecrow mouths on Rhys’s bicep and shoulder.

 

“Shit I hope that does it,” Vaughn was unsure of his own handiwork.

 

“Should do, but where’s the company, man?”

 

Vaughn looked away from Rhys.  “We have to go in and finish the job,” Vaughn said as he pulled Rhys to upright.  “There’s a lot to do,”.

 

Rhys tried to move the fingers in his right arm.  They curled but only faintly, something he’d have to work on.

 

“Alright let’s go save the world!” a strangers hand landed on Rhys’s left shoulder, “Get paid! Get, uhuh, laid, boys, or uh,” the stranger wore a fresh pair of fatigues and his face was so flawless that Rhys thought he might be from the USO tour.  He looked at Vaughn who seemed undisturbed by his loud nature.  “Chip chop chip, come on!”

 

Rhys followed the stranger and Vaughn followed Rhys.

 

“Name’s Jack, and you?”  Jack announced.

 

“..Re-uh, Rhys,” Rhys muttered.  Vaughn looked at his friend with slight perplexion.

 

The three arrived at a cross street.  “San Mer Ingles, boys, that’s French for Saint Sea English or some shit, but who cares, fuck France,”  Jack had a presence that could only leave Rhys speechless.

 

“Rhys where are we going?”  Vaughn said.

 

Rhys looked back and shrugged.

 

“What are you fuckin’ mute?”  Jack was annoyed at his companions silence.

 

“Well we really should know where we’re going,” Vaughn said, “Don’t want to get lost,”.

 

“We’re creeping up on them where it counts, little man,”  Jack responded.

 

Vaughn looked expectantly at Rhys.

 

“Guess we’re going to hit something important,” Rhys said, not understanding for himself.

 

They arrived at a green door behind one of the buildings.

 

“Cupcake, why don’t you knock on that?”  Jack commanded.

 

Rhys knocked on the green door and it slammed into him as it opened with incredible speed.

 

“Ooh fuck that’s gotta hurt!” Jack wasn’t helping.

 

“Rhys!” Vaughn exclaimed as he caught him and looked into the opened doorway.

 

“Sorry mate, honest,” A British man said, “come on, get in,”.  Vaughn dragged Rhys into the building.  It was a dark bakery with wounded men strewn across the ground.  “Make y’selves at home,” he chuckled.

 

“Uh, Rhys we should really get to the rally point, is your nose okay?” Vaughn said, gesturing for the door.

 

"It's, yeah, it's fine," Rhys said, pulling the door open with his wounded arm.

 

“Wait how did you do that?” Vaughn whispered with concern, “Could you move that before?”

“I.. huh, I guess it’s back to functioning?,” Rhys let out, just as concerned.

 

“Nice job _Rhysie_ ,” Jack boomed, landing another pat on Rhys’s shoulder, “you opened a door just like one of the big boys!”  Rhys jumped.

 

“Everything alright?”  Vaughn’s concern returned.

 

“Yeah,” Rhys assured, “hey Jack could you not-”

  
“Jack, who’s Jack?” Vaughn’s stared at Rhys as his concern reached a pinnacle.  Who _was_ Jack?


	4. Ample Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys and Vaughn find cover as the marines from the beach make their way into Sainte-Mère-Église.

“Buddy,” Jack said, holding back a fit of laughter, “he can’t see me,”.  Rhys’s mouth was agape, his stare blank.

 

“Rhys, Rhys come on, we can’t stand out here like this,”.  Vaughn had already passed off the unusual behavior and Rhys followed him behind the makeshift hospital that Jack had led them to.

 

The sun was slowly rising behind a tall building from which a paratrooper hung by his parachute.  A woman sang in crackly French from a shop below the suspended man.  Her song was an ironically sweet contrast to the gruesome scene of the battle they had clearly missed.  Building’s with rough holes where windows once stood unbroken were now front row to a slaughter in the night.  A row of Americans lay neatly in front of their former cover.  Opposite from them, a row of Germans piled in the same fashion, both resembling discarded pieces from a game of chess.

 

Vaughn crouched behind a shot to shit saloon car, and gestured Rhys towards him.

 

“Okay, where’s the fight happening now-” An explosion cut Vaughn off, “Mystery solved!”.  Vaughn grabbed his gun but didn’t move from his position.  “Jesus, shit I don’t think I can go out there man,”

 

Rhys needed Vaughn to be strong for him.  He reached out a comforting injured arm to Vaughn.  “Buddy, we trained for this,” The moment was almost romantic.

 

A half-second after he said that, a man ran past them, screaming and on fire.  His back streamed flames behind him as he then fell to the ground and dilapidated into a heap of black.

 

“FUCKING HELL WHAT THE _FUCK_ WAS _THAT_ RHYS,” Vaughn screamed at his companion, “WHAT THE FUCK!?”

“I-I DON’T KNOW MAN, THAT WAS FUCKED UP RIGHT,” Rhys replied, equally loud, ”HE JUST BURNED UP, HOLY SHIT!  WAS HE A GOOD GUY OR?!”

 

Four men, guns blazing, backed up past the saloon car.  The cavalry had arrived, and it brought the battle.

 

“Shade, cover-em, we gotta burn these bitches to the fucking ground,” a soldier said, gesturing to an opposing group of Germans.

 

A thin man in goggles carrying a flame thrower adjusted his aim to the dirt which he had wet with fuel earlier.  The flames roared out past a boutique and climbed over the German barrier.  The enemies scattered from their cover and fell prey to the three men with Thompson machine guns.

 

The man with the flamethrower was no longer useful to the fight, and sought cover behind the car with Rhys and Vaughn.  “Hey there,” the thin man said, “Paratroopers?”

 

Rhys and Vaughn nodded.

 

“You, uh, come from the beach?”  Rhys ventured.

 

The man just stared at them with a grin on his face.  Vaughn looked at Rhys.  Rhys looked at Vaughn.  He was starting to creep them out, why were his lips so thin?

 

“Hey, Vaughn, they might need us out there, come on,” Rhys said, standing up.

 

The front of the boutique had been riddled with bullets, and a dead German was hanging from the window.  These guys from the beach were good.  Vaughn climbed to his feet, and the two were off to the battle.

 

“You think he’s gonna be alright back there alone?” Vaughn asked.

 

“What? Yeah, I mean he’s got that flame thrower,” Rhys answered.

 

“They say that they’re like a bomb strapped to your back, one bullet the whole thing’s--” Vaughn was cut off by a German yelling and pointing in their direction.  They stood at the opposite end of the street that the other group of Germans had been pushed back to.  The thin man’s cover behind the car was exposed.

 

Vaughn pulled Rhys behind a crate on the sidewalk as the bullets began to fly.  Boom.  Half of the thin man with the flamethrower flew through the air.  The saloon car was no longer ample cover but instead an inferno on wheels.

 

The three men who had seized the Germans behind the barrier were headed back towards Rhys and Vaughn.  They tactically weaved in and out behind small covers, skillfully taking out the threats.

 

Then they began to falter.  One was shot as he reloaded his machine gun.  The second was shot in the stomach and stammered back into the burning car.  The third ran out of ammunition and all the German firepower was directed at him.

 

There was silence.

 

“And look at you guys, sittin’ here like cowards,” Jack was back, “Ike’d be ashamed, come on, up up!”

 

Rhys stood involuntarily.  “Woah wait, wait, stop, Jack!”  He raised his rifle

 

“Rhys?!” Vaughn didn’t want him to end up like the others.

 

Jack made a finger-gun and aimed it at the enemy.  “Boom,” Jack said as Rhys shot the German in the head.  “Boom,” another in the eye.  “Boom,” the final German in the group fell backwards.  “Hail to the King, baby!”.

 

“Rhys!?” Vaughn said, looking up at Rhys who was shuddering with adrenaline as he lowered his weapon.

  
“Let’s go, come on,” Rhys said coldly.


	5. Hostile Takeover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaughn witnesses Rhys's strange new behavior.

“Rhys ar-are you,” Vaughn said reaching for Rhys’s shoulder.

Rhys jerked back, “Don’t _touch_ me!” he threw Vaughn’s hand off his shoulder.

“Is everything okay, you seem-”

“I’m fine, come on,”

It was clear that Rhys wasn’t fine.  Whatever had just happened had set something off in him.

A German military truck blocked the road.  The air was silent and crisp.  Rhys climbed into the back of the truck and reemerged a second later putting something in his pocket.

“See something?”  Vaughn asked.

“Look, Ron,” Rhys said, looking at Vaughn from the back step of the truck.

“Ron?”  That wasn’t his name.

“Ronald, whatever, so far, I’ve saved your ass from _what_ , a million Nazis?”  That seemed exaggerated.

“I..”  Vaughn tried to retort but Rhys wasn’t giving him the time.

“And you?  What have _you_ done, for me?”  Rhys asked.

“I threw a shoe at that kraut, I saved your ass, I-”  Vaughn had _totally_ saved his ass back there.

“Threw a shoe, big _Goddamn Hero_ , ain’t ya?”  Rhys said rhetorically.  What the fuck was he getting at.

“Rhys what the fuck are you getting at?”

“Well you’re _not_!  While you were back there cowering behind a milk crate I was killing Nazis.”  This wasn’t right, this wasn’t Rhys.

“Rhys you’re acting really weird!  We’re on the same _team_ here,”  Vaughn felt like crying.

“That’s right, _I’m_ Rhys!”  Rhys declared.

“What the fuck, man?”  Rhys rarely declared that he was Rhys, and usually only when answering the phone.

“Anyways, give me your Zippo.”  Rhys said, stretching his hand out to Vaughn.  Vaughn handed him the black crackle lighter.

“You see,”  Rhys said, checking his own pockets, “Shit, give me a smoke,”  Vaughn handed him a Lucky Strike from his breast pocket.  “So you see,”  Rhys said, lighting a cigarette, “that truck behind us there, the covered one blocking our way,”  Vaughn nodded in agreement that the truck was in fact behind them.  “That truck, is fucked,”  Rhys said, tossing Vaughns lighter onto the canopy covering the truck.

“My Zippo!”  Vaughn said as the canopy caught fire.

“Come on cupcake,”  Rhys said pulling Vaughn into a small apartment lobby.  “Ten.  Nine.  Eight.  Seven.  Six.  Five.  Four-,”  The truck exploded.

“GOD DAMN,” Rhys screamed over the sound of destruction, “I GOTTA WORK ON THAT TIMING”

Vaughn looked _horrified_.  He stared at Rhys with sheer terror.  Who _was_ this man and what had he done with his plucky friend.

“OK,” Rhys yelled, “HERE’S OUR WINDOW!”

“WHAT?”  Vaughn screamed back as Rhys pulled him out of the lobby and into the fiery street.

They ducked under the smoldering frame of the decimated truck and came out on the other side.  About fifty Germans lay knocked to the ground by the explosion, some crawling away in a haze of shock while most lay bloody and mutilated.

“Rhys, this is _really_ fucked up, man”  Vaughn stated.

“Yeah?  And you think _they_ wouldn’t do the same?”  Rhys responded.

“Well that-”  Vaughn looked over at Rhys as he kicked a Nazi’s severed head.

“ _They_ decided to come out here today, had the _audacity_ of trying to stop us, shot me in the _fucking_ arm,” Rhys said.

Vaughn looked to the bodies on the ground as he and Rhys began walking to god-knows-where.

The cobble road probably once held farmers markets on Sundays, bright fruits and rich wines and the smell of fresh bread gracing it weekly.  This road held memories of love and joy to so many.  Now it would hold a darker memory, for anyone who escaped this military operation alive.  So many would not.

“Got another smoke?”  Rhys asked.

“Since _when_ have you smoked, again?”  Vaughn answered with a question.

“Since whenever the _fuck_ I want, _give_ me a smoke,”  He said, discarding the butt of his previous cigarette.

Vaughn handed him another Lucky Strike from his breast pocket.

“Light?”  Rhys asked.

“You, you blew it up, remember,”  Vaughn replied.

Rhys broke out into laughter and put the unlit cigarette into his pocket.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rhys said, still laughing, “I’ll get you a new one.”

Vaughn sighed angrily.  He knew he probably wouldn’t be getting a lighter.  The two went into an alleyway at the end of the street, rounded a corner and walked down another street just like the last.

As they approached another alley, there was a faint conversation being held in German.  Rhys pushed Vaughn to the wall and put a finger over his lips as he held up his rifle.

Rhys entered the alley and Vaughn heard a thud, then a sound of confusion, followed by another thud.  Ruffling.  Coins hitting the cobblestone ground.  A clink.  Two clinks.  The hiss of a lighter.  The inhale of a smoker.

 

Rhys emerged from the alley wearing a German officers hat and smoking a French cigar.  He tossed Vaughn a trench lighter.

“What the fuck,” Vaughn exclaimed with surprise, “How?  You, can you not wear that hat, Jesus.”

“Is it a bit much?”  Rhys asked, pointing at the hat.

“You could get shot.”  Vaughn explained.

“You could set your hair on fire.”  Rhys retorted.

“Just, come on, man,”  Vaughn begged, “Don't wear the fuckin’ Nazi hat, man.”

Rhys took off the hat and stuffed it in his bag.

“HALT!”  One of the beaten Nazis cried from the alley.  The sudden noise made Vaughn jump.  

“Shut _sieg_ fuck up, Adolf!” Rhys held out a German Luger and shot the man in the stomach.  He laughed as the man rolled over groaning.  

“Dude what happened to you?”  Vaughn said, shocked at his friend’s brutality.

“Whatever do you mean, dearest Ronald?” he said, cracking into laughter again, “Shit, I just can’t keep up the charade, this is too funny, I ain’t Rhys,”

Vaughn blinked at the man.  Maybe he wasn’t Rhys.

He looked like Rhys.  He was wearing Rhys’s uniform.  Hell he didn’t even have cigarettes or his own lighter, Rhys wasn’t a smoker.  How could this not be Rhys.  But then, he acted nothing like Rhys.  In the past several hours, he had changed into a sadistic killing machine, ruthless and cruel.

“Wh-who _are_ you,”  Vaughn stuttered.

“The name’s Jack,” he said, straightening his posture, “I mean, they called me _Handsome_ Jack, but look at this new face,”

“ _Rhys is handsome,_ ”  Vaughn gasped, defending his absent friends face.  “And what do you mean ‘new face’?”

“Kid, you’re stupider than I thought,”  Jack said, as he turned, “Come on,”

Vaughn’s muscles tensed.  He hated being called stupid, and Rhys knew that.  He wouldn’t call Vaughn stupid, not even for a joke.

“Vaughn, look,” he said, turning again and grabbing Vaughn by the shoulder, “I knew your name was Vaughn this whole time-”

Vaughn stared blankly.

“-I just, man, I love a good joke,”  he continued.

**  
**Vaughn’s face exploded into anger and he swung the butt of his M1 into Rhys’s head.  Rhys hit the ground, out cold.


	6. Intermission I: Relocated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning from his father's funeral, a young Rhys is brought to his new home.

The cab pulled away from the restaurant leaving two people and a pile of luggage out front.  The sun set slowly over the buildings.  Rhys looked into the window as his aunt unlocked the door.  The chairs were stacked on top of the tables, and the only light came from the stairwell next to the kitchen.  He’d been there last Chanukah, when his immediate family of two was a member stronger.

A hand touched his right shoulder.  “Come on Rhys, come inside,” his aunt said, holding a door open.

“Where’s Uncle Marcus?”  he asked as he entered the establishment.

“Uncle Marcus will be back soon,”  She answered a tear welling in her eyes.

The lights in the apartment above the restaurant flickered once then turned on, revealing a humble parlor with a couch and table.  
  


“We haven’t got a bed yet, but there’s plenty of blankets for the couch until we do,”  Rhys’s aunt said, setting down a trunk.  “Why don’t we go have some supper,”

“Yes’m,” Rhys said as he pulled at his tie.

At that moment, Marcus Kincaid sat in his bar across town.  His cousin’s final will and testament gave him only one thing for sure: a powder keg of a business plan.

A man in a brown suit entered the bar, and a small bell rang.

“Mr. Kincaid?” the asked, looking at the only patron in the dry bar.

“Yes,” Marcus morosely replied.

“My condolences about your business associate,” The man sounded ingenuine, “It’s my understanding that you’ve obtained… certain _holdings_ ,”

The man slowly pulled a gun from his under-arm holster.  The bespectacled bartender looked up from the glass he was polishing and smiled.

“I see,” Marcus said.  The man had forgotten something, this was Marcus’s bar.

“Holdings, that are, well, _sought after_.  Simply put...”

A gunshot cut him off.  The man toppled to the floor.  The bartender stood there, gun still smoking.

Marcus leaned over the intruder.

 

“Unfortunate you won’t be able to pass the message onto your employer yourself,“ Marcus said as he looked down at the dying man, “but we’ll be keeping the map,”

The man in the brown suit blew a breathe of blood out into the air and then died.  Another head off the hydra, no effect in the grand scheme.  His employer may have expected Marcus to be a softer man than his predecessor, but like his cousin, he could be ruthless.

“Milosevic, clean this fucking mess up,” Marcus said, looking down at the viscera on his floor, “I have a nephew at home who needs some fucking consolation.”

Marcus sped through the night, hoping Rhys wouldn’t have already gone to bed by the time he got home.  The kid deserved better than what he was getting, but his father had lived in a manner that no man lives for long in.

The apartment door swung open.

  
“Uncle Marcus!”  Rhys exclaimed as he jumped up from the kitchen table.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in a while, so any feedback you have is appreciated.


End file.
